The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ King, by Ge-ged,” seconded Stubbs.

      “The King – the King!” vociferated the half hundred voices of their followers – the bystanders echoing the phrase only in faint murmuring.

      “Goblets to the ground!” commanded the captain – at the same time tossing his own into the middle of the road.

      The action was imitated by every man in the troop – each throwing away his empty vessel, till the pavement was thickly strewn with pots of shining pewter.

      “Foorward – ma-r-ch!” cried Scarthe, giving the spur to his charger; and with a mad captain at their head, and a maudlin cornet in the rear, the cuirassiers filed out from the inn; and took the road in the direction of Red Hill.

      Despite the wine within him, the captain of the cuirassiers, was at that moment, in a frame of mind, anything but contented. One of his reasons for having drunk so deeply, was to drown the recollection – yet rankling in his bosom – of the insult he fancied himself to have suffered on the preceding night, and which he further fancied to have lowered him in the estimation of his followers. Indeed, he knew this to be the case; for as he rode onward at the head of his troop, his whole thoughts were given to the black horseman, and the mode by which he might revenge himself on that mysterious individual.

      Scarthe was on the way to country quarters – near which he had been told, the black horseman had his home – and he comforted himself with the thought, that should these prove dull, he would find amusement, in the accomplishment of some scheme, by which his vengeance might be satisfied.

      Could his eye at that moment have penetrated the screen of foliage rising above the crest of Red Hill, he might have seen behind it, the man he meant to injure – mounted on that sable steed from which he derived his sobriquet. He might have seen him suddenly wheel back from the bushes, and gallop off in the direction in which he and his cuirassiers were marching – towards Bulstrode Park – the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

      Though Scarthe saw not this, his midday march was not performed without his meeting with an incident – one worth recording, even for its singularity; though it was otherwise of significant interest to the cuirassier captain.

      In front of a dilapidated hovel upon Jarret’s Heath, both he and his troop were brought to a sudden stand, on hearing a strange noise which appeared to proceed from the ruin. It was a groan – or rather a series of groans – now and then varied by a sharp scream.

      On entering the hut, the cause of this singular fracas was at once discovered: a man lying upon the floor – stripped to his shirt, and bound hand and foot! This semi-nude individual informed them, that he had just awakened from a horrid dream; which he now feared was no dream, but a reality! He proclaimed himself a courier of the King, bound to Bulstrode Park, with a despatch for Captain Scarthe! But the despatch was lost, with everything else he had borne upon his body – even to the horse that had borne him!

      After the full explanation had been given, Scarthe’s chagrin at the failure of the King’s message, was counterbalanced by the amusement caused by the misadventure of the messenger; and, after remounting the unfortunate man, and sending him whence he had come, he continued his march, making the wild waste of Jarret’s Heath ring with a loud and long continued cachinnation.

      Volume One – Chapter Fifteen

      The great clock in the tower of Bulstrode mansion, was tolling the hour of noon. The sports were in full progress – both actors and spectators at the maximum of enjoyment.

      Here and there a knot of sturdy yeomen might be seen, standing close together – so that their conversation might not be overheard – discussing among themselves some late edict of royalty; and generally in tones of condemnation.

      The arbitrary exactions, of which one and all of them had of late been victims, the tyrannous modes of taxation – hitherto unheard of in England —ship, coat, and conduct money – forced loans under the farcical title of benevolences; and, above all, the billeting of profligate soldiers in private houses – on individuals, who by some slight act or speech had given offence to the king, or some of his satellites – these were the topics of the time.

      Conjoined with these grievances were discussed the kindred impositions and persecutions of that iniquitous council, the Court of High Commission, which for cruel zeal rivalled even the Inquisition – and the infamous Star Chamber, that numbered its victims by thousands.

      These truculent tools of tyranny had been for ten years in the full performance of their flagitious work; but, instead of crushing out the spirit of a brave people – which was their real aim and end – they had only been preparing it for a more determined and effective resistance.

      The trial of Hampden – the favourite of Buckinghamshire – for his daring refusal to pay the arbitrary impost of “ship money,” had met with the approbation of all honest men; while the judges, who condemned him, were denounced on all sides as worse than “unjust.”

      To its eternal glory be it told, nowhere was this noble spirit more eminently displayed than in the shire of Bucks – nowhere, in those days, was the word liberty so often, or so emphatically, pronounced. Shall I say, alas! the change?

      True, it was yet spoken only in whispers – low, but earnest – like thunder heard far off over the distant horizon – heard only in low mutterings, but ready, at any moment, to play its red lightnings athwart the sky of despotism.

      Such mutterings might have been heard in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. In the midst of that joyous gathering, signs and sounds of a serious import might have been detected – intermingling with scenes of the most light-hearted hilarity.

      It may be wondered why those sentiments of freedom were not more openly declared. But that is easy of explanation. If among the assemblage who assisted at the birthday celebration, there were enemies to Court and King, there were also many who were not friends to the cause of the People. In the crowd which occupied the old camp, there was a liberal sprinkling of spies and informers – with eyes sharply set to see, and ears to catch, every word that might be tainted with treason. No man knew how soon he might be made the victim of a denunciation – how soon he might stand in the awe-inspiring presence of the “Chamber.”

      No wonder that men expressed their sentiments with caution.

      Among the gentlemen present there was a similar difference of opinion upon political matters – even among members of the same family! But such topics of discussion were studiously avoided, as unbecoming the occasion; and no one, carelessly contemplating the faces of the fair dames and gay cavaliers grouped laughingly together, could have suspected the presence of any sentiment that sprang not from the most contented concordance.

      There was one countenance an exception to this general look of contentment – one individual in that brilliant throng that had as yet taken no pleasure in the sports. It was Marion Wade.

      She, whose smile was esteemed a blessing wherever it fell, seemed herself unblessed.

      Her bosom was a chaos of aching unrest. There was wanting in that concourse one whose presence could have given it peace.

      Ever since entering the enclosure of the camp, had the eye of Marion Wade been wandering over the heads of the assembled spectators; over the fosse, and toward the gates of the park – where some late guests still continued to straggle in.

      Evidently was she searching for that she failed to find: for her glance, after each sweeping tour of inquiry, fell back upon the faces around her, with an ill-concealed expression of disappointment.

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